Scandalous Love

by Brenda Joyce

  “Aren’t I?”

  Regina cried out. “Will you persist in being a fool even now?”

  They had barely talked all week. Regina was obviously thrilled with the match, making Nicole even more angry every time their paths crossed. Their relationship seemed to have deteriorated completely from friendship to hostility.

  “I will feel exactly the way I want to feel,” Nicole snapped.

  “Why not let the whole world see how unhappy you are!” Regina shot back.

  “I intend to!”

  “Stop it!” Martha cried, standing. “Dear God, now is not the time to fight. And Nicole, if I were you, I would think twice about humiliating the Duke in front of all his guests!”

  Nicole opened her mouth to respond that Martha was, fortunately for her, not Nicole, but she stopped abruptly. The strains of the music which had been filling the room for the past half hour had ceased. Her parents had been greeting the guests as they arrived; by now all of the guests must be seated. Everyone froze, listening to the silence. It had been Nicole’s adamant decision that there would be no procession, just the bridal march to the altar where the groom would be waiting with his grandfather. Regina pulled a white kerchief out of her glove and wiped her brow.

  Nicole trembled. It was about to happen. She was marrying the Duke of Clayborough. Oh God.

  “Here,” Regina shoved the kerchief in her hand.

  Nicole took it, not seeing the sympathy on her sister’s face, for her eyes were suddenly full of tears. She did not even know why she was crying.

  Regina looked at Nicole and Martha. “Where is Father?” Panic filled her voice.

  Maybe something has happened, Nicole thought desperately. Maybe some crisis had occurred—and there would be no wedding.

  Her father entered the room. “Are you ready?” he asked his daughter. He glanced at the other two girls. “You had better go and take your seats.”

  Martha grabbed Nicole’s hand and kissed her cheek. Regina hesitated, then quickly kissed her sister as well.

  When they were alone, Nicole rose unsteadily to her feet. Her relationship with her father had also been destroyed by the advent of her wedding; she could not look at him without feeling betrayed—and lost.

  Nicholas’ gaze swept her. “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice broken. “I am so proud of you.”

  It was Nicole’s undoing. What had he to be proud of? She had scandalized society since she had come out, she was only marrying now because she had been unchaste, she had not spoken to him since he had arranged this marriage. Tears welled. “Father…”

  “I love you very much, Nicole. Believe me, I have dwelled long and hard on whether I have done the right thing in accepting Hadrian’s suit. And I am convinced that I have. Please forgive me for doing what I think is best for you.”

  She could not continue this fight with him, not here, not now, on her wedding day. She came forward, wanting to be his daughter again so badly—yet the hurt he had caused her would not go away. She looked at him, wanting to say so much, wanting to ask him how he could do this to her, wanting to tell him she did forgive him—that she did love him. She opened her mouth to speak, saw the hope in his eyes. But no words came out.

  The wedding march began.

  They regarded each other for a very long moment. Nicholas held out his arm somberly. Unable to speak at all now, Nicole took it.

  A thousand guests were waiting.

  The Duke of Clayborough was waiting.

  The Duke of Clayborough was furious but it did not show. However, it was unlikely that he deceived any of his guests. And if his bride continued to so openly display her ill will towards him, he thought, he might forget public appearances and all the good he had done this past week and a half and openly strangle her.

  They were at the reception, held at his own residence on Cavendish Square due to the huge number of guests that had been invited to the wedding. It would have been a beautiful ceremony. The cathedral was a splendid work of architecture and vast enough to hold their thousand guests. And Nicole had been a ravishing bride in her silver gown; yet she had been an angry one, as well.

  Her veil had been transparent. Delicately spun of silver tulle, it hid nothing. Her expression—her anger—had been obvious for everyone to see. She had not made one attempt to appear a happy bride, indeed, the reverse seemed to be true.

  The moment Hadrian had seen her coming down the aisle, he had been stunned senseless. The fiercest emotions he had ever experienced had welled up in him, and for one heartstopping instant he had known that he was, somehow, in love with her.

  That instant had passed immediately. Her countenance became clear as she approached, her beautiful, silver-eyed, dark countenance. There was no mistaking her emotions. She dared to humiliate him—and herself—in front of their thousand guests.

  She avoided looking at him as she approached. In fact, she kept her chin high, her mouth set in a grim, mulish line. Nor would she look at him when she paused beside him at the altar. When it was time for her to say her vows, she had actually been silent. Hadrian had taken her hand and squeezed it very, very hard—a warning that he would force her to his will even if she so stupidly made more of a spectacle of herself now. She had then, finally, to his relief, spoken. But it was too late to quell his anger.

  Now they were man and wife.

  And there was not one soul at Clayborough House who did not comprehend that the bride was reluctant, to say the least.

  The Duke’s polite smile had long since fallen by the wayside, a cold unyielding mask slipping into its place instead. He had had enough. He did not care that they had been at their own reception barely an hour. The longer he remained seated beside his stony-faced bride, who refused to eat, drink or even speak, the more dangerous his anger became. And he was trying so very hard to control it.

  “We are going,” he told her abruptly.

  “Now?”

  “Now. This minute.” He rose, and because he held her hand, he pulled her up with him.

  “Then let me change.”

  “Interested in propriety now? It’s a little late, don’t you think so—Madam Wife?”

  She stiffened. “They won’t cut the cake for hours.”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “That is apparent,” she said, looking at him meaningfully.

  “Your double-entendre escapes me. Why do you seek to delay? You are obviously not having the time of your life.”

  “Because staying here is better than leaving with you.”

  He laughed coldly. “Ah, now we get to the bottom of things. You seek to delay the inevitable. Are you afraid of being alone with me and betraying yourself?”

  “I am not afraid,” she said tightly. “I merely wish to delay what shall be exceedingly unpleasant—our future.”

  “If you continue to rile me this way, it will be more than unpleasant.”

  Her eyes widened. “You threaten me?”

  “Take it as you will.” He grabbed her arm again and propelled her along with him. She started to struggle, and he turned on her in tightly controlled fury. “Haven’t you made one scene too many today? Must you make another?”

  “You are the one making a scene,” she hissed, but she stopped fighting him.

  Hadrian ignored her. They paused to say good bye to their families. In the process of departing, however, they were waylaid again and again by well-wishers, many of whom could not disguise their lurid interest in the cool groom and hostile bride. The Duke nearly jettisoned his wife into the Clayborough coach once they were outside.

  She scrambled into the opposite corner and sat there. Hadrian climbed in across from her, ignoring her as best he could, though he was so angry with her that he wanted to throttle her. He signaled the driver to begin their journey.

  Neither one spoke. Hadrian was furious with her for her behavior on this day, in front of the cream of British society. He had worked hard to quell any gossip about them, wasting his precious
time on stupid fêtes and silly balls, charming insipid ladies and fawning gentlemen, acting like a lovestruck fool. No doubt everyone now thought him the biggest sort of fool—besotted with a bride who openly despised him. In just a few hours Nicole had undone all that he had achieved in the past ten days—all that he had achieved for her sake.

  “I hope you are pleased with yourself,” he said.

  “Why should I be pleased with anything on this day of all days?”

  She was sitting as far from him as possible, in the corner on the other side of the coach. As angry as he was, he could not help but notice how spectacular she was in her silver wedding gown with her ebony hair flowing loose. He stretched out his long legs in a casual manner which belied the tension rising in him. “I suggest you begin to change your attitude. You are now my wife. That circumstance will not change—not until I am dead. Or do you enjoy creating scandal?”

  She glared. “You know I do not.”

  “To the contrary, I think you truly enjoyed making one scene after another today.” And he certainly knew that she had enjoyed humiliating him. Another surge of anger rippled over him. He fought it admirably.

  “You forced me to the altar. Did you think I would come meekly? With head bowed, in submission? If you thought so, then you thought wrong.”

  “There is only one place where you submit to me, Madam.” His glance skewered her. “Perhaps that is the one place where I should keep you. For both our sakes.”

  Nicole had flushed at his reference to her unfortunate passionate nature, now she gasped at his suggestion. “I hope you are jesting,” she muttered grimly.

  “The idea has vast appeal.”

  They stared at each other. For Nicole, the coach was too small. Hadrian was too near for comfort. His proximity had been disturbing since the moment she had approached him at the altar. His proximity was always disturbing. She could not help but think about the impending night—their wedding night.

  It was impossible to believe, but she was now his wife. Once she had wanted that with all of her heart, but that seemed to have been a lifetime ago. She was his wife, he had done his duty. And now he expected her to accept her position—and, she suspected, his advances. She clenched her fists. He could not force her to marry and expect her to be docile, he could not. And if he really thought that tonight she would accept him with open arms, then he was insane.

  But what about all the nights after this one? Even if she successfully refused him tonight, how long could she succeed in rejecting him? Nicole did not have to think too long to know that her cause was hopeless. For she rejected out of hand the idea of an anullment, and would not even examine her reasons.

  But he must see that he could not force her to his will this way, he must.

  However, her heart was beating too rapidly and she was too aware of his regard upon her. It was bold and blatant—his intentions were obvious. Nicole wished she could not remember what it felt like to be in his arms, what it felt like to be the recipient of his kisses. Unfortunately, her memory was perfect.

  Nicole turned away from him to stare out the window. The winter evening was approaching with undue haste, yet despite the chill in the air, and the fact that her silver fox cloak was open, she was not cold. Far from it. She was suddenly seized with an inexplicable panic, suddenly feeling trapped, boxed in. She clutched the fox closer, for comfort.

  Hadrian broke the silence between them. “I did not make any plans for a honeymoon.”

  “Good.”

  He continued calmly enough. “I have some pressing matters to attend to at Clayborough and at several other estates. I will have disposed of these matters within three weeks. We can travel then—if you wish.”

  She finally turned to face him, the panic still there, its partner despair. “I do not wish! I do not want to go anywhere with you! I do not wish to be your wife!” Her voice broke. “I do not!”

  “Again, your feelings are no revelation. In fact, I am tired of hearing them. Please keep your distress on the topic of our marriage to yourself.”

  Nicole turned her teary gaze from his hard, glittering one.

  “I have no wish to honeymoon with a shrewish bride, anyway,” he said.

  It shouldn’t have hurt, because she did not want to go abroad with him. Honeymoons were for lovers, not antagonists. She knew without a doubt that if he had married Elizabeth, they would have enjoyed weeks and weeks alone together on the continent. But it did hurt. She snuggled deep into the fox cape, fighting tears of exhaustion, hysteria and perhaps, defeat.

  They arrived at Clayborough Hall five hours later. It was dark now, a starless, dismal night, and Nicole could not really see the palace which, she had heard, rivaled that of even the royal dukes. Hadrian helped her from the carriage. Nicole let him, having no choice, but the moment her feet touched the solid ground she quickly withdrew her hand from his. She heard his breath hiss in displeasure.

  There were so many servants lined up in the vast entry to greet her that Nicole froze in surprise and a touch of fright. Perhaps a hundred members of the staff were all waiting to meet their new mistress—her. She pulled her silver fox cape more firmly about her shoulders, her only movement. She realized that Hadrian was addressing them.

  “It is late. You may meet the Duchess tomorrow at noon. Please return to your duties.”

  Everyone disappeared.

  Duchess. You may meet the Duchess tomorrow. It hadn’t really registered. Nicole still did not move. She was the Duchess of Clayborough. It was amazing, it was terrifying.

  “This is the housekeeper, Mrs. Veig. Tonight she will show you to your rooms.”

  Nicole managed to nod at the stern-faced, uniformed woman who stood silently by the stairs. Hadrian then asked her if she would leave them for a moment. Mrs. Veig also vanished.

  Nicole became aware that the room they were standing in—the foyer—was larger than most ballrooms. The ceiling was several stories high. The floors underfoot were green and gold-flecked marble. Huge white pillars rose to touch the ceiling. Naked angels were carved at their tops. This was Hadrian’s home?

  This was now her home?

  “I will give you a tour of the house tomorrow,” he said.

  She turned to look at him.

  “Because it is late, we will eat in our rooms—later.”

  Nicole stared at him, still trying to adjust to the idea that she was now the Duchess of Clayborough—one of the premier peeresses in the realm.

  “I shall be up in a half an hour,” he told her. “I expect you to be ready. Is that enough time?”

  All at once what he was saying struck her and her eyes widened. She realized that he was watching her closely, attempting to read her thoughts. Before she could tell him not to bother intruding upon her on this night, he called for the housekeeper, who instantly appeared. Without another word, the Duke strode abruptly away.

  “Are you ready, Your Grace?” Mrs. Veig asked. Her voice was not as stern as her expression.

  Nicole was shaken by the circumstances, including the fact that this was her wedding night and she was not about to submit to Hadrian again. She managed to turn to the housekeeper. “Yes, please.”

  Mrs. Veig’s face softened. “Come this way, then. Your bags have already been brought up the back way.”

  Nicole followed Mrs. Veig, apprehension freely filling her now. How would she manage a home like this? And this was just one of the many fantastic residences he kept! How could she possibly oversee such a huge staff? Why, she wouldn’t even know where to begin! Suddenly she regretted that her education had not been more conventional—that she had refused to bother learning about household management except in its most rudimentary aspects.

  Nicole’s gaze roved ahead of her, up the endless flights of curving stairs, her hand running along the smooth teak railing. A red runner trimmed in gold covered the stairs. Huge paintings, some landscapes, some portraits, many done by masters, gazed down at her from the walls.

  They did not p
ause on the second landing. “There are more apartments here, but His Grace’s suite—and yours—are on the third floor,” Mrs. Veig explained.

  The housekeeper’s words jarred Nicole back into the present and the crisis about to confront her. In a half an hour Hadrian would be at her door. Her stomach turned over nervously, yet her pulse leapt, too. If only she could be confident that she could, indeed, control her desire for him. But she had no confidence at all, for as furious as she was with the events surrounding this day and with Hadrian, she could never deny that he was the most spectacular male she had ever laid eyes on.

  But she would die of shame if he had his way with her tonight.

  Nicole finally entered her bedroom through a grandiose sitting room done up in pink and white tulle fabric. There was a study to the left, the walls papered in a cherry stripe, and two vast walk-in closets and her dressing room. Again, the theme everywhere was pink and white; even the marble floors of the bathroom were a pale rose. It flashed with sadness through Nicole’s mind that pink was probably Elizabeth’s choice of color. It occurred to her that every time she entered these apartments she would be reminded of the dead girl—and Hadrian’s love for her and his grief. Hadrian, who was now her husband—but not out of choice.

  Nicole suddenly despised pink.

  Five maids were madly at work unpacking her things, including her own thirteen-year-old Annie. Already only two of her five trunks remained unopened. The rest of her belongings would be coming later in the week.

  More than apprehension was filling Nicole now. She trembled, feeling desperately sad. “Thank you,” she said to the maids and housekeeper. “This is fine. I can do the rest later.” She wanted to be alone.

  Everyone turned to look at her in shock with the exception of Annie, whose eyes had been as big as an owl’s since she had first entered the palace. The housekeeper finally spoke, her tone gentle despite the admonishment. “We’ve plenty of staff to be doing that, Your Grace. When you want anything, just pull the bellcord.”